


Cause I know, the second you go, want you to bring it on back to me

by EmeraldWaters



Series: Speedy and Arrowguy [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AIM aren't so useless this time, Alex Summers deserved better, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author has no idea how America works, Clint can see in the dark, Everyone Is Gay, Everyone still loves each other, I wanted to write in the X-Men so I fudged a lot of timelines, Literally making up tags as I go, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Prank Wars, The Avengers all have private Instagram accounts and you can't tell me otherwise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8828098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWaters/pseuds/EmeraldWaters
Summary: In which Pietro Maximoff is taken, and Clint's world nearly falls apart.ORThe third and final part of the AU nobody asked for where Laura and Clint separated mutually as of a few years ago, Clint is in his late twenties and Pietro’s actually alive.*Ignores Civil War*





	

**Author's Note:**

> Last story in the Speedy and Arrowguy series for now! Sorry it took so long to arrive, inspiration was lost to me for a while. But this is by far the longest fic I have ever written so I'm quite proud of it, especially the ending. 
> 
> Blink by Revive is the best song for canon Hawksilver, I definitely recommend listening to it.
> 
> Title is from Adam Lambert's 'Chokehold.'
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters, they all belong to Marvel. I will not make any money from this.
> 
> Enjoy and please feel free to leave comments!

 

**Two days before**

 

With extreme care, and a tongue poking out from behind teeth, Clint finally fits the saran wrap between the doorway. Shaking his hand free, he quickly checks his shoulder before getting a hand to the edge of the vent, pulling himself up and in. Once in the safety of the metal square, he asks FRIDAY to loop the feed directly to his phone.

Honestly, Clint hadn’t expected the pranks to have gone on for this long. But in saying that, there was also no way he was going to let Pietro dying his hair go. It had taken a week to wash out; not to mention the fun the media had had with it. 

Although he loathed to admit it, Pietro had been much more successful than Clint had. Clint’s best attempt so far had been to childishly hide all of Pietro’s shirts. This had of course, backfired, because when the kid walked in, all lean muscle and lightly-tanned skin, Clint had promptly choked on his tongue. Not only had Pietro found a way to filter fart gas into the vents (which had embarrassingly enough, caused Clint to fall through a hatch, coughing, into Sam’s room) but had also rigged a door to spill water on him two minutes before they left for a charity event. You ever spent three hours in an uncomfortably damp suit? Because Clint definitely wouldn’t recommend it.

“Clint, your presence is requested in the training room,” FRIDAY announces and Clint groans.

Training time.

 

* * *

 

“Up,” Nat commands, appearing from nowhere, as an upside-down frowny face he can still see between his fingers.

Clint groans from his newly acquired spot on the bench. He’s been in the gym for hours now, as he has every day since getting his cast off. Strengthening exercises, although strenuous, are boring as hell.

“My legs hurt?” He tries.

“Remind me to tell HYDRA that next time. Maybe they’ll go easy on you,” she replies dryly, pinching his leg sharply.

Wincing, Clint sits up and reluctantly heads back to Steve – who he will blame for the aching legs. Like Clint gets they want him back in the field but the guy is a _machine._

Nat chucks his mouth guard at him as he grudgingly stepped into the ring. Rolling his neck to get the kinks out, Clint tightens his helmet and works the gloves on. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this. Sans the shield, they’re evenly-matched and Clint has beat Steve more than a few times, but with a weak ankle and without having sparred in 3 weeks? Clint is at a serious disadvantage.

At Nat’s signal, Clint reluctantly pushes off the corner post and raises his arms.

 

* * *

 

Clint ~~walks~~ limps from the gym, limbs groaning in protest. He lost the fight by more than a margin. Cap fights dirty.

Hunger changes his path from the loft to the kitchen. Sam is alone at the stove, but adds another bowl to the counter when he sees Clint drop his bag and towel at his feet.

“Steve work you to death?”

“Mmm. Where’s your shadow?” Clint asks, genuinely curious when he doesn’t see a single glimpse of Barnes.

Sam slides the now-full bowl in front of him, eyebrow raised. “Where’s yours?”

Clint shoves a spoonful of soup into his mouth instead of answering.

 _Touché_.

 

* * *

 

He’s in bed when his phone dings.

Thanking FRIDAY, he pulls himself into a sitting position. Slowed down enough to see, there are 3 videos, each about 30 seconds long. Two are of Pietro getting hit in the face by the cling film, causing him to fall backwards and one of him getting caught at ankle-height, sending him sprawling. Without a pause, Clint uploads them onto his Instagram. He’s still laughing to himself as he falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

**One day before**

 

The next evening brings Clint to the kitchen, cooking dinner for the team (the ones who eat that sort of thing at least). Steve, who’s sitting at the table with a paper, and who is also a little shit, throws things at him every so often, trying to catch him off guard.

Relaxed as he is, Clint doesn’t notice Pietro’s presence until the man is behind him, pressing the length of his body against Clint’s back. His spine stiffens as an arm snakes around him to dip a finger in the pot (which would normally earn a whack, but oddly Clint’s whole body is frozen). There are lips at his ear, humming, and Clint can’t quite supress a shudder, but before he can even move the warmth disappears. In total, the exchange probably lasted about 10 seconds but Clint is blushing right down to his toes. 

When he risks a glance at Steve, he can practically see then man’s grin through the sports section. Clint would very much like to sink through the floor now, thank you.

 

* * *

 

Midnight brings Clint to the living room. Pietro is already there, sitting in front of the Mario Kart loading screen. Clint settles into his usual cross-legged position on the kid’s left. Late-night video games have been their tradition for a couple of months now. Clint hadn’t been able to sleep after watching Hunger Games – brainwashed kids killing each other hit a little too close to home – and had come out to muck around with whatever console Tony had (all of them apparently). Pietro, who didn’t sleep well, and who was also incredibly nosy, asked him what it was. Clint realized that the kid hadn’t really ever had a childhood and thus, game night was born. 

Pietro is quiet tonight, mussed hair, swallowed by a massive grey hoodie that is definitely not his. Sleepy Pietro is sometimes his favourite; rough edges and sharp mouth smoothed by tiredness. The half-light reflects the blue of his eyes. A slow smile blooms across Pietro’s face as Clint is pointing out the controls. He’s so glad this falls under their cease-fire.

But because good things can’t last forever, the Avengers button goes off in the morning.

 

* * *

 

Clint reaches for another arrow, shoulders aching. Steve had originally refused to bring Clint along until he’d seen the extent of what they were dealing with. Hundreds of AIM guards fill the streets, and this time they don’t care about causalities. By the luck of some god they don’t know by name, no one is dead _yet._ But without The Hulk they’re missing some serious strength and Scott has already been incapacitated.

“I need backup on 48th!”

“Roger that Cap,” comes the reply and Clint knows how serious Tony is when he doesn’t even make a joke out of what he’s just said. “Legolas?”

“Yup.”

Clint glances over to where Barnes is lying a few buildings away, cheek pressed to the cool metal of the gun.The man turns his head to raise an eyebrow, hand not coming off the trigger.

Tony grabs Clint under the arms and flies them off the edge, Clint’s eyes catching the small nod Bucky gives. He may not be 100% battle ready, but he knows that Barnes can’t handle crowds of people yet.

As soon as Clint’s boots hit the tarmac, Tony sets his repulsors in reverse and is gone again, back to 46th where Nat’s comm is down and the fighting is supposedly much worse. Surrounded almost instantly, Clint flicks his bow into a staff and gets to work. In ten minutes, the guards in his general vicinity are knocked out, but he’s also ripped his bracer and has a shallow but stinging cut running his forearm.

Before he can go to Steve, a series of screams ring out from a building some 50 metres to his left. Something flickers in the upstairs window. Clint changes direction without a second thought, pouring all the energy he can into speed, ignoring the twinge in his ankle.

Something rushes past him before he reaches the door, sending him flying painfully into an adjacent wall. Groaning, he picks himself up. As he nears the threshold, there’s a crash from upstairs and the screams stop. Unsettled, but unwilling to betray either his instinct or the civilians, he continues; slower. Knife held out in front of him, Clint sneaks through the building. It’s dark, and a closer look yields that every lightbulb is smashed, floor littered with broken glass. The lower level contains nothing but a camera opposite the front door and the back door blown off the hinges. The noise hadn’t come from there, so Clint heads up the stairs. Treading lightly, Clint’s sense of foreboding only grows as he approaches the singular door.  Steeling his resolve, Clint kicks the door open and has done a full 360° of the room in the first few seconds.

It’s empty.

Looking closer, there are obvious signs of a struggle; a long black burn along the carpet, a crack along the East-facing wall and more smashed glass. But he trail only runs cold from there, there is no sign of civilians anywhere, and Clint finds a speaker which replays the scream when he presses the button. Uneasy, but unable to do anything more, Clint re-joins the battle, which from then on dies out rather quickly.

Nobody realizes what’s wrong until the battle has ended.

 

* * *

 

“They’re retreating?” Sam asks, bewildered.       

Steve looks up from where he’s crouched, shield resting on the asphalt, cowl bunched on the ground. 

“Sam follow their retreat, make sure they really are retreating. Iron Man, scout the area. Make sure we haven’t missed any civilians in need. The rest of you help clear the road. Wanda – Wanda?”

Steve’s voice turns from authorative to worried in a second, and when Clint turns to face her, he can see why. Wanda has collapsed to the ground holding her head. Surprisingly Barnes gets there first, propping Wanda up on his chest, speaking in quiet, rapid Sovokian.

“Pietro,” she says finally, shaking, “I can’t hear him in my head. He’s gone.”

Clint’s mind puts the pieces together for him. _Burn along the floor… A familiar human-shaped dent in the wall…Glass of a tranq dart, weird liquid puddling the floor… Back door hanging off its hinges…_

He’s back at the building before even realizing he’s moved. This time he goes out the back door. His eye catches on something in the plantar pot in his peripheral. Pietro’s comms. And lying there, by the upturned table like a trophy, is a running shoe.

And Clint finally gets it. He was never their goal.

 

* * *

 

**Eight-hour mark**

 

An extensive search of New York reveals nothing and they have no choice but to return to the tower. Tony has shut himself into his workshop; the rest left to their own devices. Wanda has disappeared and Clint only doesn’t worry because he knows Vision is with her. Sam is talking to T’Challa? on the phone – something about keeping an eye out is all he catches before he walks out of earshot.

Clint himself heads to the shooting range. Tasha is there already, wielding double pistols. He know she’s worried. Picking a longbow, he sends the target flying back 50 metres. For ten minutes, they shoot in silence, Clint getting increasingly worse until Nat suggests they spar.

“Tony hasn’t got a hit yet,” Nat comments, ducking a punch that goes far too wide, kicking him in the ribs softly as retribution.

“He’s kicking himself,” Cint replies, with a punch that lands on her collarbone.

He winces and she grabs his hand. Damn, she already knows. The bandages around his left hand loosen; white spotted with red and they both know what she’ll find if she unravels them fully.

“The punching bag tried to fight me?” He tries, but at the look she gives him he shuts up.

Natasha wraps both of her hands around his and squeezes. Just once, briefly, but he gets her message loud and clear. She’s Clint’s best friend, she gets him even better than he does sometimes. So, he lets her beat the shit out of him.

It doesn’t help for very long.

 

* * *

 

**Fifteen-hour mark**

 

It’s about nine in the evening. Clint sits at the piano in the large room where Tony throws his parties, letting his fingers run over the keys. All he feels is empty, incapable of anything more than half-focus. In fact, he wouldn’t have even eaten if Sam hadn’t have put a plate in front of him and waited until he’d eaten it. Tony still won’t let anybody in the lab, even kicking Steve out. They still know nothing.

 

* * *

 

**Twenty-one-hour mark**

 

Clint is bone-achingly tired. Eyes unfocused, he flicks through the TV channels, not seeing any of it. He’s never felt this useless before. Wanda joins him, leaning her head against his shoulder, tucking her feet under herself. He can’t begin to imagine how she’s feeling. She’s already lost him once. He doesn’t know what she’ll do on if she loses him again.

“You care for him, don’t you?” She asks, accent quiet and gentle. She sounds more Sovokian than her brother does.

He could feign ignorance, could deny it in a multitude of ways, but there’s no point. “Yeah I do.”

She doesn’t say anything more so they sit in silence. It’s three in the morning when Clint hears her breathing even out. Carefully retracting himself, Clint tucks a pillow under her head and settles a blanket over her curled-up form.

“FRIDAY please monitor her vitals. If she wakes or has a nightmare, please alert me, Steve or Vision.”

Wandering the darkened halls is no use to anyone, so Clint decides to go see if Tony is accepting help yet. Surprisingly the door slides open under his hands. Even more surprising is the stillness of the workshop, lights turned off and the noise but a dull hum. He gets two steps in before his eyes catch on Tony’s form slumped on the couch. Clint’s not about to disturb him so retires to the vents instead.

Tony and Wanda are gone by the time Clint surfaces; to meet with a Professor that supposedly can help them. Apparently, the Prof and Tony go ‘way back,’ (which Clint takes to mean Tony blew something up and the Professor didn’t kill him, leading to a friendship where Tony is annoying but tolerated). It has happened more often than you think.

Running on about two hours of sleep, Clint takes to pacing.

Then, because life hates him, the Avengers button goes off. 

 

* * *

 

**Thirty-hour mark**

 

Clint trudges back into his room, beyond tired. Letting his quiver slip off his shoulder and onto the floor, Clint sends a longing look at the bed before looking at the dirt and blood caking his body. He sighs. They were lucky today, without Tony, Wanda, Bruce and Pietro, they were without a lot of power.

Luckily the battle was long but small; handfuls of AIM guards around the city. Steve seemed to the think it suspicious, and has stolen into Tony’s lab. Clint has just started unbuckling his vest when FRIDAY’s voice rings throughout the room.

They’ve found him.

 

* * *

 

**Thirty-two-hour mark**

 

According to the Professor, Pietro is being held deep underground in what used to be a HYDRA base, located somewhat two hours away. Apparently, Pietro is in ‘great mental distress.’ At this thought, Clint urges the Quinjet faster. Their new companions sit quietly in the back, unsure.

Clint feels the same way, the X-men and The Avengers have never worked together before. But this is a necessity because as Steve had suspected, AIM were keeping tabs and as soon as noon hit, they launched a full-scale attack on New York. Cap, Falcon and himself are the only ones heading to the base, along with Iceman, Shadowcat and Colossus. Staying behind with the others are Havok, Beast and Mystique (in a display of tact often absent in the man, Tony hadn’t mentioned the fur, the blue scales or the metal.)

Kitty and Piotr have mainly kept to themselves but Bobby had been lounging in one of the co-pilot seats for most of the trip, chatting. The kid is pretty laid-back and keeps spinning a snowflake above his hand, which kept Clint’s mind from going to dark places.

 

* * *

 

**Thirty-four-hour mark**

 

As soon as they touch down they all split up, plan drilled into their heads. Decked out with comms and stealth-gear (none of that yellow-costume nonsense) they all take different levels. Being able to see in the dark means Clint takes the very bottom floor. At first glance it almost seems abandoned, corridor paved in dust, rooms empty save from broken machines and metal tables. It’s quiet, eerily so and Clint’s hand is white-knuckled around his bow.

“Clear,” Kitty’s voice whispers through the comm.

Two AIM guards appear from nowhere in front of him and his heart jumps to his throat despite years in this business. Their backs stay to Clint. First mistake.

He lunges at the slower one, clapping an arm across his mouth as he squeezes the man’s neck. The guard is unconscious before the other realizes he’s not beside him and Clint ducks behind the corner. A beam of light appears suddenly and Clint rapidly blinks the spots out of his eyes.

“Kevin?” The guards asks nervously, steps getting closer. Clint swings the helmet at him as he rounds the corner, knocking him back, his reflex shot going wide. Clint spear-tackles him, the guard going limp as he hits the head on the concrete. They don’t make them like they used to.

A gasp. Clint looks up a second too late, a scientist staring back at him. Rolling away from the man, he nocks a blunt arrow… another second too late as a siren echoes through the base. Clint curses as he knocks the man out as he did the second.

“They know we’re here!” Sam shouts, gunfire obvious even through the comm. Thank god for bullet-proof vests.

“My bad,” Clint replies.

A quick search through the man’s lab coat reveals a swipe card and a series of notes Clint has no time to read through. Pressing his hand to the wall where the guards appeared from he soon finds a depression and slips through the gap that appears. At the end of a complicated network of corridors, does Clint find what he’s looking for.

 

* * *

 

Pietro lays prone on an examining table, heavy straps crisscrossing his body. A drip full of _something_ is connected to his inner elbow. Even from here, Clint can see the vivid bruising of his temple and cheek, the pallor of his skin, the blood in his hair. There’s a medical tray next to his chest that Clint will know he’ll be sick if he looks at. The shallow rise and fall of his chest is the only indicator of life, because other than that Pietro is still. _Still._ He is so glad Barnes isn’t here.

“Cap, in the basement-” he starts. He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“On my way,” Cap replies and only because Clint knows Steve does he hear the angry tremor in his voice.

A shaking hand reaches under Pietro’s jaw, stubble roughing his fingers. He has to be sure. The pulse is steady but weak. Clint’s forearm comes away red, and with unstable hands, he pulls the shirt down to bare Pietro’s shoulder. Clint doesn’t know how long he stares at the knife wound but Steve’s hands pull him away.

“Clint I need you to focus. There are more AIM guards on the way and we need to get him out of here. We don’t know what they’ve done to him,” Steve’s hands are solid on his shoulders, and Clint refocuses.

“The records,” He says, pulling the paper out of his vest.

Steve nods, picture of stoicism. Blue eyes gleam from behind his cowl. “Got a game plan?”

Clint’s eyes catch on something in the corner.

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

With great care and practiced movements, Clint pulls the IV out of Pietro’s arm. Steve pulls Pietro’s limp form over his shoulder and exits the room, heading to hole up in the stairwell until Clint gets there. Staring at the massive plant that’s multiplied in size since he last saw it, hideous and unnatural, Clint knows he should’ve caught on the first time.

“Bye bye,” he says mockingly, nocking and shooting an arrow into the centre. The whumph of burgeoning flames is all too satisfying.

Cap’s shield fits to the electromagnet on his bracer and Clint has to remind himself it is entirely inappropriate to fangirl. Pulling his gun, he makes his way back to the stairwell, following a trail of unconscious guards. He doesn’t pause to check if any of them are actually breathing or not.

 

* * *

 

Despite AIM’s efforts and a massive bloody battle, they all make it out in one piece. Bobby’s broken arm, Sam’s torn wing and Kitty’s black eye are small prices to pay. The flight home is surprisingly animated; Bobby is throwing icicles for Kitty to phase around, and Cap and Piotr are chatting as they monitor Pietro’s condition. Clint remains silent throughout the trip home. It’s his fault.            

Despite how well they got along, the relief on both sides when they reunite with their teammates is palatable. Wanda is thankfully absent as Steve carries Pietro to the medbay. Tasha’s arm is in a sling but apart from a cut across Tony’s forehead and a multitude of bruises, everyone else seems physically okay. Alex – Clint is pretty sure that’s his name – has a massive hole burnt into his shirt and his clothes are smoking, but no one else seems to think this outside the ordinary so he lets it go. He also doesn’t miss the kid (who can’t be older than twenty) sling an arm around Hank’s shoulders in a way that can’t be misconstrued as just friendship.

“Unexpected, isn’t it?” comes a voice from his shoulder and turns to see the blonde woman from before. Raven.

Clint makes a non-committal noise and the fair skin and blonde hair melt into blue and orange. She contemplates him with curious yellow eyes and he meets her gaze head-on. It doesn’t faze him.

“Don’t bottle things up, you’ll only regret it,” she says, sounding too old for her years and Clint knows she’s not just talking about him. She walks away before he can reply and before there can be any more discussion of working together again, the X-men are gone.

 

* * *

 

**Two days after**

 

Despite any warnings Raven’s speech may have held, Clint can’t bring himself to visit Pietro until Wanda barges into his room and makes him.

“Clint!”

He jumps, the grape he was trying to catch in his mouth hitting him in the forehead.

“Wanda.” Clint replies smoothly, as if he hadn’t just made a dick of himself.

She whacks the offered bag away. More for him then.

“Don’t play games Clint Barton. You are going to see my brother. I do not care what you think you’ve done or deserve penance for but this is just ridiculous. Moping doesn’t suit you.”

 

* * *

 

**Five days after**

 

Pietro is awake when Clint enters the room. _Damn it._ The man is looking better – still pale, but clean now – no trace of foreign, dangerous liquids being pumped through him. From what Clint’s heard the kid is now mentally stable too, which is a different story compare to four days ago when he almost strangled Sam. (They’re all still wondering how AIM had gotten their slimy little hands on HYDRA equipment). Wanda had gotten the beginning of the programming out as she had done with Barnes – although his had taken weeks to undo – and Sam’s bruises had all healed by now.

“Say something.” Pietro almost looks angry, face pinched by pain.

“How did they get you?”

It’s not what he meant to say, not by a long shot, but Clint’s filter has never worked very well and Pietro answers before he can take it back.

“They were coming for you,” Pietro says, looking at his lap. “I realized it was a trap for me too late.”

“Why’d you do it? I could’ve handled it myself.”

“If you don’t know the answer to that Old Man, there might be something wrong with you,” Pietro says, ice-blue eyes boring into him now, and its Clint’s turn to avoid eye contact.

He doesn’t say anything, just leaves, because he knows Pietro can’t follow him.

_Coward._

 

* * *

 

**Six days after**

 

His temper suffers terribly. Everything becomes annoying, and Clint thought he’d finally found a space in the dining room where he’d be left alone. He was wrong, and his teeth grit as the arguing starts anew.

“Just make-out already!” Clint yells to the lounge where Sam and Cryo-freeze are bickering. Again.  (It occurs somewhere in his mind that the word he’s looking for is hypocrite).

The “fuck you Barton!” comes unsurprisingly.

Ten minutes later there’s silence and oh god, who’s gonna tell Steve that his best friends have finally killed each other? The good, brave man that he is, goes to investigate (okay fine, he may have a Nerf gun with him). Instead of a dead body, Clint’s greeted with Sam and Barnes making out, Barnes holding Sam up against the wall, one hand splayed across his ass and the other rucking up Sam’s shirt and -

“JESUS fuck! Give a guy some warning will you!?” Clint yells, thoroughly scandalised, but he can’t help a cheeky “took your time,” as Sam slinks out of the room, avoiding his gaze.

“As if you and Maximoff haven’t been eye fucking each other.” Barnes snaps despite the tell-tale red flush down his neck. The _at least we did something about it,_ goes unsaid, but Clint hears it all the same.

And again, Clint’s left alone with nothing but his excuses.

 

* * *

  
**A week after**

 

Wanda finds him out on the balcony two days after he walked out of the hospital room, glass of whiskey in his hand, leaning on his left side. She’s bundled up in a thick cardigan, arms holding her elbows. It is quite cold out here. She approaches the railing slowly. Wanda’s not here to talk about Pietro.

“The Professor believes that Pietro and I are mutants that never manifested. That we were the only ones that survived Strucker’s experiments, because the X-gene was triggered by the sceptre,” She says after a long silence, arms folded over the banister as she stares out into the night. “He offered us a place at his school to learn to control our powers. And I think he knows who our real father is.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say. It’s obvious to him that she wants to go; he doesn’t think she’s ever spoken this much in one go before. Wanda must read his silence as reluctance, disregard, _something_ , because her next words come fast as if she was afraid he was going to laugh, “I think it would be good for my powers, being with people like me without being scared of hurting -”

“– Wanda,” Clint interrupts gently, gently because she’s looking crushed already and it amazes him how much she respects his opinion. How could she ever think he would laugh?

“If you want to go, go.” He says as simply as he can and the speed which what she jumps at him, throwing her arms around his waist surprises him. Arms pinned to his sides, he awkwardly touches a hand to dark hair.

“Thank you Clint.”

He nods and lets her go.

“You still cannot avoid Pietro forever,” she adds matter-of-factly as she slides the glass door behind her.

Clint laughs to himself; she can see through him so easily.

 

* * *

 

**Ten days after**

It’s another three days before Clint has the courage to gather his courage. By the time this happens, Pietro’s been discharged, but Helen has told him that the kid won’t let her heal the cuts on his back. Reaching out a hand, he manages to catch Pietro’s arm as he walks past, spinning, and shoehorning the man into the thankfully empty kitchen. Pietro shrugs Clint’s arm off scowling, but doesn’t leave. Good start.

Clint steels himself, to finally say what he’s been thinking for weeks now, only for nothing to come out. Pietro’s face cycles through emotions too quickly for him to see, settling on confusion. And Clint can’t. He’s a fuck-up, he’s ruined too many relationships - he doesn’t know what to say without screwing up, doesn’t know how to say what he wants.

But Pietro must get it – get him, somehow -  because he’s in Clint space in less than a second, grabbing him by the collar and kissing him, slightly aggressive and completely _right._

“You are an idiot,” Pietro says and Clint is about to vehemently deny this but teeth are grazing his neck and he moans instead, embarrassingly loud for a man of his age. Pietro is smirking so Clint grabs his waist, pressing the taller man against the counter.

“Finally,” comes a dry voice and they both spring apart, Pietro vanishing, leaving him to deal with this alone.

Clint’s smile falls. Tash has just materialized from behind the door, radiating smugness as she chews her sandwich, and her mirth only grows because he has no idea how long she’s been there.

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t mean to throw you that far you know,” Pietro says astutely, head turned back, bright eyes focused on Clint, who’s rolling out his shoulder.

“It’s only a little bit of bruising,” Clint lies, t-shirt hiding the shoulder that’s still mottled green-and-purple a week and a half later, “now face the front, if you want me to bandage your cuts you’re gonna have to sit still.”

Pietro acquiesces, surprisingly without argument, bowing his head. Silver and brown shines in the dim lighting, and Clint is quite taken with the effect it has on the speedster’s skin. Once he was okay to walk again, he’d absolutely refused to go back into the medbay, and would only let Clint touch his skin. Which, Clint thought, made sense after what he’d been through. Pietro wasn’t likely to trust a white coat in a hurry, despite how lovely Helen Cho was.

He hisses when Clint cleans his wounds with alcohol, but doesn’t move. At this point, Pietro is going to be more bandage than skin.

“One is gonna need stiches. It’ll be easier if you lie down.”

It’s ugly, a red tear in his skin of his lower back, that is still green around the edges, despite now being free from poison. Clint knows Helen didn’t touch it only because Pietro refused.

Careful not to jostle his bandaged shoulder, Pietro shifts onto his stomach, wounded arm by his side, the other tucked beneath his chin. Unusually quiet, the man stares off into the distance, gritting his teeth when the needle presses into his skin. Kneeling on the bed with one foot on the floor for balance is the best way to go, Clint decides. Unorthodox, but it works. After all, he is used to sitting in odd positions for a long period of time. And this way, he shouldn’t be too affected if Pietro moves.

“This is going to hurt,” Clint warns, even if he knows that isn’t what Pietro is thinking. Pietro’s silver, white and brown looks good against his purple sheets, Clint muses, running his eyes along Pietro’s back appreciatively. The pale skin seems to go on for miles and despite cuts and bruises, is corded with muscle. _Ahem._

  
As he ties off the third stitch, Pietro begins to shake. Shit, Clint should’ve kept talking. Because no matter what the kid says, he has been affected, whether he likes it or not. Lord knows how Clint was after the battle of New York. He still won’t let Wanda near his head.

“Pietro.”

The man doesn’t seem to hear him.

  
“Pietro,” he repeats louder.

The man moves his head but his eyes don’t seem to see Clint. If he’s not careful he’s going to panic.

"Pietro, it’s me, Clint. I’m patching your cuts up,” Clint says as clearly as he can, touching his hand to Pietro’s face, “just watch me. Watch what I’m doing. Can I keep going?”

“If you think you can keep it up Old Man,” Pietro retorts half-heartedly when his eyes focus, but his voice stumbles along the double entendre.

“I’ll have you know I have excellent stamina,” Clint responds, mind already back onto the fourth stitch, but appreciates the scoff his innuendo brings.

It takes seven stitches in total, three of which done under the watch of bright blue eyes, so if the sixth isn’t perfect like the rest, well it’s no one’s fault. He disposes of the bloodied swabs, his gloves and the needle before washing his hands. When he returns, Pietro is sitting on his bed, fighting to get his shirt on. Shaking his head, Clint joins him but makes no effort to help, that’ll only end up with his hand getting bitten off.

“You good there?” he can’t help but ask amusedly, after Pietro’s head emerges from the neck, red-faced and pained.

“Now I am,” Pietro replies, grabbing Clint’s face and pulling him into a kiss, hard and fast.

Clint has Pietro on his back before he can think, hands either side of his head, hips getting one dirty circle before Pietro groans. And not in the good _so-much-pleasure_ way either but in the _you’ve-just-put-pressure-on-my-stitches_ way. Clint pauses immediately, teeth still holding Pietro’s bottom lip before his mind catches up and he jumps back as far as the hands at his waist let him.

Pietro glares at him. “Why did you stop?”

“I'm not gonna pop your stitches.”

 “You're no fun Hawkeye,” Pietro groans from kiss-blown lips, silver hair still splayed across the pillow and Clint resists the urge to show him exactly how fun he can be.

“I'm aware you think so,” Clint replies, fighting the hand that's trying to pull him down.

“Fine. FRIDAY please turn off the lights.” Pietro says, rolling over onto his stomach which effectively dislodges Clint, and taking possession of one of his pillows.

“You're staying here then?” Clint says, amusement colouring his tone. Stretched out like that, Pietro looks like a giant cat.

“Mmm.”

Pietro is a terrible bed-mate. He twitches, he kicks and twice Clint wakes up to nothing covering him. But, Clint can’t find it in himself to complain.

 

* * *

 

**Seventeen days after**

_Thud._

“Clint you bastard!” Comes the outraged cry and Clint collapses, laughing, because he moved everything in Pietro’s room three inches to the left.

This wouldn’t have been a problem if the kid hadn’t been flaunting his newly returned speed every occasion possible (even the broken nose he got when he ran straight into a door Sam had just closed wasn’t enough to deter him). Oh, the video is going to be so worth the consequence. But the way things have been going recently, he can’t find it in himself to worry. Besides, what could the kid even do?

Famous last words.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Clint sleepily shuffles into the kitchen, flicking the overcomplicated coffee machine on. His mind takes its time to wake up and his hearing aid is on low, so he doesn’t quite hear the giggles at first. When he does, he spins around. He swears once, loudly, and walks out. Without his coffee he may add. (He’ll regret later due to the coffee maker’s small degree of sentience).

It's a photo - God knows how Tony managed to get it - blown up and plastered to the far wall. Clint is tucked into Pietro's arms as he ran them down the hill. In pink fucking cursive along the bottom is the word ‘damsel.’

Oh, Pietro is so dead.

 

 


End file.
